


the idiot's lantern

by loupettes



Series: just the bits in-between [8]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Missing Scene, Post-Episode: s02e07 The Idiot's Lantern, Requited Love, Romance, Rose Tyler Loves the Doctor, Slow Dancing, The Doctor Loves Rose Tyler
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-08
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 05:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,642
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29880066
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loupettes/pseuds/loupettes
Summary: Part eight of thejust the bits in-betweenseries: a collection of missing scenes taking place between or during each episode of series 2.the idiot's lantern. Takes place at the street party following the events of the day. The Doctor and Rose enjoy the end of an evening of laughter and giddiness together with a dance. But Rose can feel herself getting nervous as the night comes, afraid that she might be reliving the day in her nightmares. Just some fluffy, romantic goodness, mixed with some good old hurt/comfort.
Relationships: Tenth Doctor/Rose Tyler
Series: just the bits in-between [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2095053
Comments: 21
Kudos: 39





	1. part one

It was a gorgeous evening, Rose thought. The sky was a gradient of pastel oranges and blues, the warmth of an English summer’s evening still blanketing her shoulders, the houses donning a gorgeous apricot glow as the sun cast its farewell glaze.

But _christ,_ were her feet _bloody killing_.

She’d tried to persist, she really had, and she looked down pitifully at the short heel now causing her havoc that would have, only a few years ago, been considered shamefully low by her own standards. Much to her amusement, the Doctor looked over from his engrossing chat with the bloke a few tables down just at the time Rose audibly whimpered, and hastily subtracted himself from the conversation to accompany her to one of the low brick fences at the front of the nearest house.

She groaned a little too heartily when she sat down and the weight was taken off her feet. “I miss my trainers.”

He didn’t sit down himself. Instead, he reached for two slices of carrot cake from the nearby table and handed her one, along with a glass of orange juice. Only then did he perch himself down next to her and chuckle. He stretched out his legs and gave his own feet a little wiggle — she could see the movement of his toes in the tips of his converse. And, if she listened closely, the quiet pops of some small bones and joints.

“You don’t happen to have another pair of flats in that jacket of yours?”

He mumbled something incoherent with his mouth full, then swallowed and started again. “That’s my long coat. Left that behind sorry. But, ‘ang on” — he finished the rest of his cake in one fell swoop and wiped his hands on his trousers — “C’mere, g’me your foot.”

She laughed and swung her leg over his. He undid her shoe and began to knead firmly at the arch of her foot and another groan of pleasure escaped her when he moved down to the balls of her feet.

“Oh my god, don’t you dare stop I swear to god.”

He chuckled smugly — she knew he knew he was good at this, but she was quite happy to stroke his ego if it resulted in her feet feeling less like the biophysical representation of sprouts. She relaxed into it, enjoying the taste of this, quite frankly, bloody astounding carrot cake, basking in the warmth of the setting sun whilst the last remaining lord of time massaged her foot.

She looked at the last bite of her carrot cake in sorrow, torn between feeling like she might explode and remembering how good this carrot cake was. “It’s funny, because I’m absolutely stuffed, but now I’ve had something sugary I want something salty.”

“And then the salty thing makes you want something sugary.”

“And it’s a never-ending cycle,” she sighed.

“To be fair, s’not a bad cycle to be stuck in,” he pondered. “Think of the poor water cycle, getting all evaporated and condensed. Cant be comfortable. The life-cycle of a star is probably suboptimal in comparison to the cycle of gluttony. Wouldn’t particularly be keen on the life-cycle of the fruit fly, either. Nor can I imagine —”

She was aware he was making a noise, but she was too focused on the movement of his hands and the relief they brought her to pay attention to a word he was saying.

It was just on the cusp of dusk — it must be getting on for 9 o’clock. The party was still relatively lively, though, at least in terms of attendance. People weren’t so much dancing now as they were sitting on their garden chairs next to each other, the kids had finished playing badminton and were now tracing letters and symbols on the gravel with stones and chalk.

“What time is it?” she asked.

He looked up at the sky and pulled a face in contemplation. “About 9ish?”

“Aren’t you supposed to be one of them Time Lord people?”

“I’m not your personal watch, Rose Tyler.”

“Well then, what the hell am I keeping you around for?”

He gestured to her foot.

“Fair enough.”

Now completely shrouded in a relief so blissful she couldn’t quite recall the feeling of pain, Rose looked closer at all the neighbours around her and smiled. She’d spoken to most, if not all, of them tonight and they were all lovely, of course. There was Marian over there, who was telling Rose about her daughter’s new jewellery business she’s just moved to Birmingham to start. Then there was Brenda and her husband John, a good few years into retirement now and make it to Butlin’s every year — they’re going next week. A couple of good looking guys too, one that had been eyeing Rose up all evening who she was semi-tempted to have a good old snog with down one of the alleyways because she bloody missed _kissing_. It’s not like she’s ever going to get anything from this useless old toad next to her.

“We never really had street parties growing up,” she mused out loud. “Suppose ‘cos we were less a _street_ and more a _block of flats_ , but there was this one bank holiday where it was sunny — for once — and we all grabbed our dining room chairs and sat out on the outside corridor. And then, in true British fashion, it pissed it down with rain and we had altogether about thirty minutes of sunshine, but we stayed outside just havin’ a laugh and catching up.”

Rose took out her earrings and searched around for her jacket. She spotted it cast over the back of a chair a bit further down the street, and there was a moment she was faced with the terrible choice between putting her gorgeous earrings somewhere safe or continuing with the sweet service being performed upon her feet, so she searched the Doctor’s jacket instead and tucked them away in his inside pocket.

“Good luck ever finding those again,” he scoffed. She frowned and the pressure on her foot momentarily softened. “So, this street-slash-corridor party?”

“Ah, yes,” she grinned. “Think I was, like, maybe thirteen? Definitely at a time I didn’t want to hang out with mum and the neighbours, but, I dunno. Everyone was in such a good mood, and it was so cosy to be sheltered from the rain, it was just… nice. Even Mitzy was there!”

“The cat?”

“Yeah!” She couldn’t help but laugh, it was one of those memories tucked away in the back of her mind that was always a pleasant surprise when it was brought forwards. “Everyone had bought little picnic snacks, cos the weather forecast said it was gonna be a hot one. Little sausage rolls and bite-sized scotch eggs, so, of course, we all ended up sharing them outside.”

His grin was delightful, almost as though the picture she was painting was vivid enough for him to have been there, too. “You lot are certainly persistent, I’ll give you that.”

She watched as he gazed out at the street, his smile reflective of a scene not physically in front of him.

“You love it, don’t you?”

“Oh, absolutely!” He gestured ahead with his hand. “Look at all this! You lot, you get one day off as a whole nation and you decide to spend it together. Get out your Cliff Richard and your butterscotch fudge, rain or shine. Nothin’ll stop you.”

She giggled to his glee. He was right, the whole street was still at it. Tables of food still uneaten, neighbours catching up for the first time in weeks, the smiles of those choosing to be alone in the sun closed their eyes to at least still be alone together. In fact, nobody seemed overly bothered that they’d had a frightful day today especially. Everyone was safe, everyone had each other now, and they were all just so cheerful and carefree. Rose couldn’t tell whether that was the way they really felt, or whether they too were putting on an act. There had been an edge to her joy this evening, that being of course that fact that her face had been… well, she had…

She shuddered. She’d found herself thinking about it this evening when she hadn’t actively _not_ been thinking about it. The void, the darkness and helplessness, the sounds of her screams and the absence of her voice. Truth be told, she had an extra reason to not want the sun to set tonight, and she felt a terror so deep at the thought of closing the door behind her later to come face to face with eight hours of memories, eight hours of reliving over and over again the feeling of being so helpless, so scared and _lost._

“Everything alright?”

She was able to muster the strength to look him directly in the eye, and she was met by his narrow and concerned. She had a feeling a simple _“I’m fine”_ wouldn’t suffice, so she smiled into her cup and took a sip. “Course. What’s not to be happy about? Like you say — dancing, cake, crafts. No Cliff, though, which is a shame.”

“And also in temporal keeping, considering Cliff didn’t release _‘Move It’_ ‘till ’58.”

He always seemed to make her laugh in a way no other person could, like it originated from somewhere else in her body. A bit higher up, maybe — it was certainly easier to reach. Her tension broke, and for a moment she truly was unplagued. “Maybe he can be next on our list.”

“Who?”

“Cliff!”

“Ha! _No_ chance!”

“Oh, come on. He’s a national treasure!”

“Name _one_ song he’s ever sang besides _“Devil Woman”?”_

_“Mistletoe and Wine.”_

“Give over! Christmas songs don’t count!”

_“The Millenium Prayer.”_

“You’re the worst, you know that?”

She grinned when he gave her foot a little poke. “Alright, fine. I can’t. I know ‘em, but I don’t know their names. The sound of my childhood is Cliff.”

“Something tells me your mother sings along without knowing the words, too,” he groaned.

“And all the better for it! Once you hear the lyrics, it only gets worse.”

_“Open your eyes on Saviour's Day, don't look back or turn away?”_

“Not his worst!” she giggled. “Can’t say the same for your singing, though.”

Their game of chuckle-tennis ended there with her victory and they both began to laugh; Rose wincing every now and then and holding her waist feeling like she might throw up, and the Doctor’s laughter getting more uncontrollable as he watched her struggle — the pressure on her feet momentarily stopped when he had to control his breathing and calm himself down. They kept catching each other’s eye and would only start giggling away again, until they were finally able to gain a slither of control and he tapped her foot and motioned for her to give him her other. She switched, he took her shoe off and began kneading again. His smile faded and his frown was subtle, not quite believing her ruse.

“You sure you’re alright?”

She sniffed; the more he asked her, the harder it was to pretend to be ok. “Bloody hell, you! I promise!”

He only half-grinned, so she stuck out her tongue.

“Alright, alright! I’ll believe you for now, but I have got my beady eye on you.” He narrowed his eyes comically and pointed at her.

She waved his hand away. “Don’t you always?”

“Not enough, it would seem, with the amount you go wandering off and I misplace you.”

He kept rubbing his thumbs in circles until she stopped wincing and the muscles softened. After a few minutes, he gave her foot another tap to signal the end of the best foot massage of her life and she groaned.

“I will be forever indebted to you.”

“Mmm,” he smirked, picking up his empty glass and holding out his hand for hers. She finished the last of her juice and gave it to him, and he put them both on the table before holding out his hand.

“One last jive before we head off?”

She groaned in contemplation. “Fine, but my shoes are staying put on the floor.”

“You’re not standing on my feet like a four-year-old.”

“Well, in that case, count me out.”

He scoffed loudly, but he remained firm in his request. “Oh, come on! It’s my turn now!”

“What do you mean _your turn?”_

“I’ve had to watch every other lucky bugger on this street dance with you tonight, I’ll be damned if I don’t get my own dance.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but, and she couldn’t bloody believe it, the all-too-familiar melody of the ethereal clarinet accompanied by the sultry saxophone lead began to sound from the nearby radio. _Of course,_ she groaned loudly, at around about the same time he tilted her head and gave her _that_ look — it was almost as though the bloody sod planned a _Moonlight Serenade_ cameo, and, with his raised eyebrow, she almost folded her arms in indignation out of spite.

He pouted. “Now listen, I know you delight in watching me beg so just do me a favour and preserve my dignity just this once.”

She looked down at her feet, now so nicely soft and relaxed, and then back up at him...

“That dress was destined to be danced in alongside Glenn Miller,” he tried, giving it one last shot. Until he mouthed a sad pitiful _‘please’_ and she was, as always, won over by his wretched, adorable charm.

She had to laugh. She saw him, then; old, daft faced big-ears, and her eyes closed as she clung to his memory: the romanticism of this evening; the low hums of blissful content from those still brave enough to dance; the memory of falling in love and those days last year.

She opened her eyes and found a new face looking back at her now. That same old daft face but with brown eyes rather than blue, now a delicious caramel under the sun’s spell, his smile inviting and sincere, one that told her he just wanted her to be up there with him.

She shook her head with a smile and stood, taking his hand held out to her. “It’s only cos it’s this bloody song that I’m adding you to the pile of lucky buggers who got to dance with me this fine evening.”

His voice had softened now that she’d given in. “I shall allow the song and the song alone to take full credit.”

“Less reluctant this time, are we?”

He grinned. “I was in a mood.”

“In keeping for you at the time.”

“Oi!” — although it didn’t much deter him from guiding her hand to his shoulder, freeing his to take her waist — _“You_ were dangling an overly charming man in front of me and calling me a grouch when I didn’t like it, now you tell me not to be moody at that.”

“Admit it, you were jealous!”

“Of _Captain bloody Jack Harkness?_ You hearing yourself? _”_

“So you admit he was a captain now?”

“Only in title,” he scoffed.

“Like you’re only a lord in title?”

 _“I_ am a lord by nature,” he smirked, but her lips curled seductively.

“So you _were_ jealous.”

She waited patiently for his reply.

“Alright, yes, I was jealous.”

She was blushing furiously at this point, and she was grateful that their close proximity hid her face from him. But she knew he still knew, his heightened Time Lord senses and all that could probably feel the heat from her cheeks or whatever. It was so terribly unfair that he could get her all flustered while she could do no such thing in return. But for the first time, she didn’t particularly mind. After weeks of uncertainty and mistrust on her behalf, he had her back, and she wanted him to know she was happy to be. More than happy; she was so completely in love with him that she daren’t let herself think about a day where she _wasn’t_ his.

There was something else he wanted to say, she could tell. His breath sort of hitched a couple of times, and then she’d see his Adam’s apple sink and he would swallow the words back down. He had certainly gotten better at being open with her again, but he was still hesitant to say some of the things he might have said had he known for certain they were inseparable. But it was different sometimes, she felt a nervousness from him that stemmed a lot from what she felt was vulnerability rather than uncertainty, even when she’d given him no reason to feel like he couldn’t say the things he wanted to. Her fingers gently brushed the hair at the nape of his neck, keeping her caress soft, partly because she wanted him to feel how he made her feel — and she succeeded, apparently, by his shudder to her touch — but mostly because she just wanted to be kind to him.

He had saved her life today, and they’d not really acknowledged it. Verbally, at least. She was relieved when they had embraced, and afterwards had been a bit too shaken up to bring it up. She’d learnt by now that the Doctor never liked to be painted as some sort of saviour — normally when he does quite literally save her life, he’ll say it’s bizarre she should want to thank him for such a thing he wouldn’t ever consider _not_ doing. He’d much rather she not mention it — _“just comes with the job”,_ he’d say. So she couldn’t really use her words, she instead had to use her actions. Which she had thus far been doing a dreadful job with, as she considered moments ago he was giving her foot massages to relieve _her_ pain.

So she continued to ghost her fingers down the back of his neck in the most appreciative way she could, a gentle smile tugging at her lips when she felt the goosebumps begin to surface on his skin. She leant her cheek to his chest to keep him close and she liked to do this, to make him feel loved and cared for when he refused to believe anyone ever could. He had this awful habit, though, of not allowing anybody to focus on him and him alone — he always had to return the gesture; through the fabric of her dress, she could feel his own fingers caressing her back.

She closed her eyes and listened to the sounds around her, startled that even the setting sun seemed to have its own song amidst the chatter of the neighbours. She realised Glenn Miller had stopped and they were now listening to something a bit more upbeat, but their movements had stayed consistently slow and mindless. All of her senses were blissfully satisfied: the warmth of the sun on her face; the laughter of children as they played outside with each other; the smells of English summers and barbecues and hot tarmac; and a pinstriped suit, her best friend so close to her here, in the fifties, having a lark and being daft and finally winding down to each other’s company.

“You’ve shortened.”

She would have been a bit more miffed that he had interrupted her stupor, but his voice was almost as soft as the touch of his thumb now brushing hers. A playful tease; he didn’t want this to end much, either.

“My natural form.”

“Oh, I’m all too familiar with your natural form,” he smirked. “Try as you might with your hair straighteners and pink dresses, don’t forget I’m the one who gets to see the panda eyes and oversized tee-shirts with curry stains on.“

“You’re damn right, _‘gets to’_. It’s a privilege.”

“Oh, of the highest honour. I consider myself blessed.“

“S’the least I could do when you take me round time and space. Except the days you miss-park — which reminds me — where _is_ Elvis tonight then, hmm?”

“I presume delivering wedding ceremonies.”

She giggled despite herself and heard his gleeful hum beneath her ear. It instinctively pulled her in closer, although she couldn’t be certain it wasn’t his hand that guided her to. Though, she could feel that they both knew they were stretching this out, and that they were running out of excuses to keep so close to each other.

“I think that carrot cake might just be the final nail in the coffin,” she groaned, feeling quite literally like she couldn’t breathe in and out.

“Have I delivered your untimely death?”

“Maybe, but I don’t mind death by carrot cake.”

“I’m with you on that, we can go down together.”

They both chuckled. Rose’s breathing was unsteady, and she considered she may very well need not worry about a night of nightmares when she might be spending it hunched over the toilet. “Na, I’ll be alright. Might have to unzip this dress a bit, though.”

He hesitated, and there it was again. It wasn’t just her though, saying these things that made the other pause, he could do the same to her. Well, of course he could. Sometimes they might say something meant as a joke to a best friend until they realised that it was quite possible they weren’t just best friends. So she couldn’t be certain, couldn’t possibly be, but she thought she heard him breathe into her hair, “don’t say things like that to me.”

His fingers had found the exposed skin on her back, and it was only with his cool touch did she notice she might have caught the sun a bit. But she could feel him tracing small mindless circles across her shoulder, his head bowed, either to give her easier access to the nape of his neck or because he had spotted her reddening skin and wanted to soothe it. She soon found out when she felt his breath tickling her neck and realised he was chuckling.

“What!”

 _“It’s the union jack only when it’s flown at sea!”_ he mimicked, voice high-pitched in his best Rose-impression.

“Well it’s true! Not about to do a disservice to our Queen, especially not on her day of Coronation.”

“Just picturing this man, sitting you down at aged nine, to talk to you about flags —” she couldn’t not chuckle with him as he tried to control himself “— _bored_ out of your tiny pre-adolescent mind.”

“You have no idea,” Rose laughed. “He used to pick me up from school — George, his name was. I wasn't nine, mind, think I was in year eight or something. But he was so bloody boring. Proper loved the sea, and the more he spoke about it, the worse it got.”

“Remind me not to take you to Challenger Deep, then.”

“Pfft,” she scoffed. “Like we could ever get down there, pressure’s a thousand times higher than up ‘ere.” She smiled, pleased with herself. “I always remember that.”

“Rose?”

“Yeah?”

 _“You travel in time, and you’ve been to space._ I think we can both safely assume high pressure won’t stand in the way when it comes to me.”

“Let me introduce you to George, you’ll get along.”

She felt his smile against her temple and her eyes closed to the feel of him so close, his ever-steady hearts beating a calming rhythm beneath her ear. Rose always loved summer — not as much as autumn, when the nights started to cool but the heat of the summer's day still remained, but there was something so spellbinding about the day coming to a close after 10 o'clock; summer dresses and the smell of fake tan; the sound of lawnmowers and sprinklers; busy parks and weekend trips to the seaside. She couldn’t decide if she wanted to stay here because she adored this moment and didn’t want it to end, or whether she was far too afraid to face what she knew would happen once they broke apart.

She could feel the rise in goosebumps on her arm, the chill of either the onset of twilight or the terror of tonight’s anticipated nightmares but she willed for them to subside. Apparently, so did he, because she felt the tips of his fingers glide the length of her arm, carefully ironing them out, but he must have known this would only elicit the opposite response from her. She was lucky she always had the excuse that he had a colder body temperature than her, but nevertheless, she tried not to shiver; she knew she could get another few minutes out of this gorgeous, lovely scene. But by suppressing her shivers she let out a yawn, and she mourned the loss of his contact when he pulled away and wagged a finger at her.

“Right, you. Home.”

She smiled, the word itself momentarily fending off the monsters and the oncoming nightmares. “Home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An episode to supply us oxygen throughout the ages! The next chapter carries on immediately following this chapter, and reads through the Doctor's perspective. To be posted tomorrow, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I enjoyed writing it!


	2. part two

They wandered lazily through the quiet sleepy streets, a deep velvety blanket of grey clouds drifted low above them with the occasional glimpse of clear night sky in their break. She’d started off the stroll on the pavement to his left while he walked the road, giving her the advantage of height now that her shoes dangled loosely from his fingers, but she eventually stepped down to be on his right, apparently because she _“didn’t like walking on that side of him”._

It was, in fact, the thoughtlessness of their steps that brought to his attention her arm hooked around his; sometimes she would even place her other hand on his arm endearingly, until one time it stayed put and that was that. It was rather rude of him, then, that the hand of said arm be stuffed in his pocket while the other held her shoes, but he couldn’t exactly free either one of them up now — what was he going to do, remove her arm and just take her hand? No running from danger, no dance etiquette, just _hold her hand?_

It certainly would be lovely, to continue their drowsy promenade for the rest of the way home with their hands entwined, but a bit of a stretch for two pals returning back from a street party at the end of a, quite frankly, bloody long day.

“It’s a shame we never managed to catch up with Tommy in the end,” Rose mused. “I wonder if he and his dad worked it out.”

“He was a good kid. I reckon they did.”

“His dad was a bit of an arse, though.”

“You were the one that told Tommy he should forgive him!”

“Doesn’t mean his dad wasn’t an arse.”

He snickered, even more so when she didn’t outwardly laugh too; she stood her ground. If it were up to him, he wouldn’t have bothered telling Tommy to give it another go. Far too kind and forgiving, was Rose, but nevertheless, he only ever hoped he could be as kind and forgiving as she indeed was.

“Tell you what, though, bloody miss that Vespa now.”

“I’m not giving you a piggyback again.”

She laughed, as did he; he realised how much his cheeks _ached_ from all that giggling throughout the day. “That was a fun night, New New York. We were doing exactly the same back there, too. You were even holding my shoes.”

He looked down at said shoes. “Yes, just how do I keep happening upon the situation in which I become your doting assistant?”

“You never _exit_ that situation, that’s why.”

He groaned in defeated agreement, although he would quite gladly admit he was completely subservient to her every wish; her doting assistant indeed. Quite simply, he was just happy to know he was her _anything_.

“Pass ‘em here, then. I can take them from here.”

“How very generous.”

She snickered, and he was peeved when she released her hold on his arm to take them. Thankfully, though, the addition of the shoes to her possession made not much difference in terms of arm-on-arm contact, although it meant he had her shoes knocking into his hip every now and then. But a price he was willing to pay if it meant more touch from a Rose Tyler —

_For god’s sake, pull yourself together._

She was nervous, and she had been all night. She was fine, though. Safe and sound, he’d got her back, and the adrenaline from today only made him more possessed to her. He realised about the time Rose glared at him that it had turned into a bit of possessiveness in general, unhappy whenever she was dancing with or even talking to someone else at the party. Ok, well, if he were being transparent — another _man_. There was that man in particular, slimy-looking fella, the one that looked like he wanted to stick his tongue down her throat that made the Doctor want to, quite literally, snap him in half. Not healthy at all, and Rose might not have wanted to feel yet again imprisoned by something or someone so soon, but he realised he was quite powerless these days. He had found himself wondering whether Rose too had noticed the keen little git, and even worse, whether _she_ might want to reciprocate the gesture, but he had to quickly abort that train of thought before it swallowed him up completely. At the end of the day, it was he whom she was choosing to go home with tonight, and that was all he could hope for. He was quite ashamed to admit he wanted her all for himself.

He glanced up at the stars, now more visible given the time period and subsequent lack of twenty-first century smog, and, for the first time, felt like he’d rather be down here than up there exploring them.

He realised their already-idle steps had become even slower, and he tilted his head to see Rose’s eyes struggling to stay open. He was about to nudge her before he spotted the opportune moment to finally take his spare hand from his pocket to brush the backs of his fingers across her hand. “You holding on alright?”

She chuckled sleepily and leant her head on his arm; he could see the effort she was putting into opening her eyes, so much so that it made her yawn. “Bloody knackered.”

“Mmm. I can tell.”

Her pace didn’t quicken, though, and neither did his. For some reason, and one he was ever grateful for, she would rather be walking by his side than sleeping.

And then he realised she was not nervous. She was _afraid_.

His default mode whenever Rose felt afraid, or sad, for that matter, was to cheer her up by making her laugh — he’d figure the rest out later. Almost always, Rose was just in need of a good giggle. That’s what was so wonderful about her, she could erase all her worries (and, quite honestly, the rest of the world’s) by simply laughing. But there was the odd occasion that wouldn’t work. The problem was, he had no bloody idea what to do after the laughing didn’t work.

It had only happened… maybe once before. Well, that he can remember, anyway. 7th November, the day her dad died. Well, not the exact day, even though they had been there, but the 7th November 2005. Really, he hadn’t a chance in hell of making her laugh that day, and he knew he daren’t even try. He did the next best thing and handed her over to the only other person in the whole universe he trusted to take care of her: Jackie Tyler. Who, on the other hand, somehow seemed a bit more cheery that day — goodness only knew how, when the thought alone of losing Rose sucked all possibility of future tranquillity and joy from his hearts, but then he realised she was simply doing her job as a mother. It was the day he finally started to see eye-to-eye with her.

Actually — no, he was wrong. It _had_ happened another time, too. But, to be honest, he tried his best to forget about it because it had been _him_ who had caused her to be so. The night they’d got back from that town hall dance, the one where she told him she’d planned on _leaving_. He’d done his best to keep it together for the rest of the night, and he thinks to this day he did a pretty good job of it. Even when he saw Mickey and Rose sharing a kiss in a moment of privacy outside. But he’d caught her that evening, in the library, fast asleep with a book about Reinette Poisson that she clung to with her fingers, her face forlorn as her nightmares manipulated her into believing something that wasn’t true. He was at a complete loss that night, and couldn't possibly have found it in himself to cheer her up because seeing her that way, seeing her so heartbroken and lost, emptied him of any ability to find joy and comfort within _himself._

So he tapped the backs of her fingers now until he could find something to make her smile, but it seemed that was all he needed to do, as she soon began that wonderful little giggle. Of course it was, it was her bloody natural instinct to smile.

“Hello.”

“Hello.”

And once more, they were giggling. Goodness, he felt drunk on her tonight. Well, tonight especially, more so than any other day Rose Tyler chose to spend with him. He imagined the memories of tonight might well suffice for many days, years even, to come.

They stopped in front of the blue box and Rose leaned sleepily against the door while the Doctor fiddled with his inside pockets in search of his key.

“Doctor?” she murmured quietly, her eyes closed.

He felt the need to match her quiet hushed tone. “What?”

She didn’t say anything at first, and so he tore his gaze from his pocket to look at her. For a man who had exquisite hearing, the only thing perceivable to his ears _was_ the silence; it seemed she was so beautiful under the cool silver glow of the moon that his senses decided to dedicate themselves only to that of sight. The smile at the corner of her lips had a dreadful weight to it that panicked him, and only then did his other senses restart and he realised she was drowsily tugging at his arm, and so it fell compliant with her command. He watched curiously as her hand found his and brought it to her lips to press a soft, silent kiss to his knuckles.

“Thank you for saving me, today,” she whispered against his skin.

He frowned, not really understanding what she meant by it, and it pained him to learn that she felt so helpless today that she relied only on him to save her, and he felt a dull ache in his chest at the thought of having taken so long to get to her.

He could feel something else poking his consciousness, and it took him a couple of seconds to process that she, Rose Tyler, had just kissed his hand. 

He stood completely still, unable to do much else, and watched her closely as he tried to gauge her reasoning. And, in part, wait for her to realise what she had just done. But she held his hand in place, and he knew that, if he didn’t say something soon, or at least escape the stupor he found himself in at having experienced the feel of her lips on his skin, she would feel embarrassed by what he knew was a brave advance on her part.

Or, she was just very tired, and didn’t know what she was doing.

“Course,” he said quietly. She smiled, squeezed his hand, then allowed him to free it to find the key.

After a few impatient moments passed and he still couldn’t find the key, he heard her giggling.

“What now?”

She pulled her own key from her jacket pocket with the most devilish grin and he sighed. 

“You love to watch me suffer, don’t you?”

She clicked her tongue and stuck the key in the door. “I just wanted to spend time with you.”

“We could have spent time together indoors, you know.”

As soon as he stepped over the threshold, he chucked his jacket over the coral and undid his tie. Rose yawned and wandered sleepily over to the jumpseat where she plonked herself down, swinging her legs up to lie down on her side. He could tell the moment her head landed on the leather that she was exhausted. He couldn’t help but grin; the woman already being far too big to use the jumpseat as a bed made even more so by her oversized, and indeed, gorgeous dress billowing around her. By the looks of it, she may very well already be asleep.

“Rose,” he whispered.

“Mmm?”

He couldn’t even remember what he wanted to say, so he chuckled instead. “Take your makeup off, you’ll regret it otherwise.”

She groaned; a playful whimper that actually might have actually had some physical pain behind it. “Can you do it for me?”

“Massaging your feet? Carrying your shoes? Taking your makeup off? Who’d you think you are?” he scoffed, reaching into his pockets and rummaging around for the spare pack he carried on him.

“Why on Earth're you carrying makeup wipes? Planning on partaking in cabaret?”

“They’re _supposed_ to be for times we get stuck somewhere in the middle of the night and I have one less thing for you to be moody about the next morning. But that somewhere wasn’t supposed to be the TARDIS control room.” He crouched down to her level, but when she closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep, he tutted. “Lazy cow.”

It was her victorious little smirk that did it, that and how she stubbornly kept her eyes closed, that made him chuck away his pride and start removing her makeup for her. She hummed contently below as he patted her eyes delicately, weakening the thick layer of black mascara that coated her lashes; it reminded him of all the times he’d wince watching her roughly rub it off so carelessly. He used pressure only from the tips of his fingers to wipe at the dark smudges under her eyes, before moving on to the rest of her face, gently removing the foundation from her cheeks, gliding over the bumps and grooves of her cheekbones, revealing a couple of moles as he went that he knew were there but didn’t often have the fortune to see, reaching her nose and running the wipe down its bridge. Committing to memory every freckle, every strawberry mark and chickenpox scar that was uncovered with every stroke.

He pulled his hand away once he’d finished and took her in; goodness, she was breathtaking. He’d always thought so, but now especially, her skin reflecting a slight sheen, her eyelashes lighter and softer than only moments ago, the highlights of her face glittering gold under the soft orange glow of the TARDIS while the shadows carved her beauty, the sculpting of contours that made her face _hers_ and hers alone.

He had been in love before, and he had seen many wonderful beautiful things in his long years of life. Each time was different, each time was magical in its own right, but Rose Tyler was one who made him feel such a way after he never thought would be possible again. After terror and darkness, blood and battle, there came her. Smiles and warmth and a hope so hopeful he only had to spend each day fooling himself that it would always be this way. And now, as she lay peacefully opposite him, he had to pull back, because being only inches away from her was suffocating in the most unbearable, addictive of ways.

“Mmm,” she sighed happily. “Can you do that every night?”

“No.”

She chuckled and opened her eyes. “That’s reasonable.”

He looked around for somewhere he could put this makeup wipe, refusing to pick up her dreadful habit of throwing things carelessly on the floor. He settled for his pocket, and when he looked back up she was watching him closely, her expression carefully crafted to hide another underneath it.

“What?”

The layer shred, and he watched her swallow, struggling to keep fighting. That was as far as he was willing to let the fear get to her, and he knew those years of battle would prove useful if only for taking on the rest of this fight for her.

He gave her an understanding smile and reached for her headband, all the while she watched him intently. His touch was caring, as it always was whenever he touched her: the tips of his fingers brushing her hair deliberately; the gentle placement of his thumb in the hollow of her temple as he hooked his fingers under the silky headband. It was only once he removed it did he notice how tightly it had been bound to her head, how much pressure she must have been feeling behind her ears all day and long into the evening. He put the headband on his lap and rubbed his thumbs at the space behind her ear until he elicited a sigh of content from the woman below. He was careful not to meet her gaze as he ventured towards the back of her head, feeling around for those pesky bobby pins of hers, locating the grooves and gently sliding them out of her hair, one by one putting them in his pocket.

“You nicking them for yourself?” she whispered, he imagined trying to make a joke but he felt the air too, that there was something tantalising in the space between them mixed with the anticipation of dread yet to come. But he was desperately trying to ease her worries, and he would keep trying to chase her smile until he could be absolutely sure she felt safe.

“Saving myself the pain of stepping on one on the way to the kitchen.”

Her chuckle was drowsy and he could hear considerably less burdened, and all the more delightful for it. But he continued, releasing her hair from its final hold of a tightly-bound bobble, untwisting it and carefully tugging on it until her hair was completely free. He used the tips of his fingers to rub small circles over her scalp, relaxing the follicles in the hopes of spurring tingles to ripple down her spine and numb her every anxiety. He did so until he heard her breathing steady, his suspicions confirmed when he finally did draw his eyes to hers to see she had closed them, a faint smile on her lips. He continued a few minutes more to be safe, grazing his thumbs back to the heat behind her ears, applying just enough pressure to relieve the slight swelling. Anything to ease her into a sleep much more peaceful than she was afraid she would have.

He recognised that he was leaning in to kiss her forehead only after he’d done so, only once his lips lingered in their wake on her skin. He’d made a terrible decision, because, now that he was so close to her, he couldn’t bring himself to draw back. His eyes closed at their proximity and he submerged himself in it; he could hear her breathing beneath him, feel the warmth of her skin, smell the gorgeous blend of blueberries from her hair and vanilla moisturiser and it was a haven he wanted to remain enveloped in for as long as he possibly could.

But he couldn’t. And she had better things to do with her life than have a Time Lord completely and helplessly dependent on her presence, his hearts and the fate of the universe reliant on hers.

 _Too close,_ he berated. Too intimate; friends shouldn’t do this. Not even best friends.

He thought back to the other night, waking up in her bed back at her mum’s. They’d found each other at some point in the night and had loosely, unknowingly tangled their hands together. It was all getting a bit too close, and now, as he wanted so much to comfort her and make her feel safe, he thought back to that morning and the terror at having slept so soundly with somebody he knew would only leave him in the end. As he reluctantly loosened her fingers from his so she would be none the wiser, he ached at the sounds of her sleepy semi-conscious protests and he realised, then, that he was not only preventing his hearts from solace, but hers too.

No, she couldn’t possibly feel the way he feels. Not after everything he’s done, neither in his dreadful existence nor to her personally. He was struggling to cope even with two hearts, there’s no possibility she could bear the same weight with only one.

He was being sucked in and he was tired, a constant battle to keep himself from being devoured entirely by the all-consuming black hole of grief and despair that awaited him. If he could _just keep himself here_ , stop himself from falling now, he might just be able to survive it.

“C’mon,” he pressed softly, his hands with little more volition than his lips as they skimmed her face, tracing the outline of her cheekbones and feathering their way down to her jaw. “Time for bed.”

“It took my _face,”_ she whimpered.

There was a silence, and then there were her eyes. Dreadful eyes, the kind that filled with terror, the kind that ignited something inside him so raw and agonising that not even decades of war had prepared him for.

And just like that, he surrendered himself to her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These two will be the death of me. I hope you enjoyed this addition to the series, it's hard to do _the Idiot's Lantern_ any justice because it is, essentially, 42 minutes of the most wonderful fluffy/angsty/romantic goodness of the entire 2005 run. 
> 
> We know what's coming next, it's the episode where it really does all fall to pot and, lets face it, the love between these two become too much to handle, supplying us with oxygen even 15 years later. The next instalment of this series involves two chapters, again split between Ten/Rose's pov, and is set both pre- and post-mortgage scene. Expect some humour and, as always, romance, but I think 2.08 is all about the angst, the hurt and comfort of hovering over the threshold of terror and the raw need for each other in surviving it together. Until next Monday! Loup x


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